


You feed me fables from your hand

by cerebel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alaska, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent on Both Sides, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Ragnarok, Ragnarok, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, the twilight of the Gods: Clint Barton watched as Asgard descended into chaos, unimaginable monsters against unimaginable power, death and destruction to a degree he never thought possible. Three years ago, he saw Thor wade into the fray and fight his way to his brother, Loki. Three years ago, he ran, fleeing with the rest of the Avengers, as the gods dissolved into memory and dust. </p>
<p>Today, he sees Loki again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You feed me fables from your hand

Three years ago, the twilight of the Gods: Clint Barton watched as Asgard descended into chaos, unimaginable monsters against unimaginable power, death and destruction to a degree he never thought possible. Three years ago, he saw Thor wade into the fray and fight his way to his brother, Loki. Three years ago, he ran, fleeing with the rest of the Avengers, as the gods dissolved into memory and dust. 

~*~

Today, life goes on much as it ever has. Aliens, magic, superheroes -- it’s not _common_ , but it’s not unheard-of, either. Clint’s not going to be out of a job anytime soon. In fact, he rarely even gets vacation days. 

Today’s a vacation day. One of those vacation days that not coincidentally happens to fall on the same days that he’s injured, enough that he can’t work in the field. This time, it’s a few broken ribs, meaning that he’s in pain with every breath. Not so much pain that he can’t limp around half-assedly, of course. He could limp around half-assedly even if he had all four limbs amputated. Clint is the kind of guy who can do half-assed and crabby until he’s in the ground. But he’s not going to be drawing his bow any time soon, which means that he’s on vacation, which means he is getting the hell out of dodge, leaving DC and New York and Paris and all of those damn cities tainted by a dozen dozen murders and thefts and tortures. There’s hardly a tourist destination in the world now that doesn’t have some bad association for Clint. Not to mention he’s sick and tired of tropic heat and sweating desert.

“Take some time,” said Nick Fury. “Sit your ass on a beach with an appletini and I’ll call you in three weeks.” 

Clint hates appletinis, because he actually has testicles and taste buds, and fuck tropical beaches, anyway. Always contrary, he decides he’s going to head on north, to some ass-frozen icy piece of shit town. Maybe he’ll go to Alaska. Maybe he’ll see some god damn glaciers before some godling or wannabe supervillain melts them just to be an asshole. 

A long and uncomfortable ride hitched on a military plane headed to Anchorage, Alaska, and then he steps out in cool sixty-degree weather and a light breeze and air clear as a bell. He considers taking a tent and going and tempting some bears into a fight, but instead checks into a hotel, and tries not to think about the fact that Nat is out in Prague without him. Not without backup, but without _his_ backup, which is worth more than all the rest combined. 

First, he sleeps for a day and a half. Curtains closed, ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ on the door, and sprawled on the bed, absolutely and completely dead to the world. How often does he get to sleep like that? _Never_ , and he only does because he knows that it takes a hell of a lot of noise to get through one of those hotel doors, and he’d never sleep through a racket like that. Not even as tired as he is now.

After that, he wanders blearily into the downstairs lobby at about 3PM, definitely the wrong time to have breakfast. Finds himself out on the streets of Anchorage, obviously what passes for a big city in a place like this, though it looks disturbingly backwater for a guy like Clint. He passes a dozen souvenir places with the same ivory (expensive), wood (cheap) and whalebone (could not be worth more if they were literally made from pulped hundred dollar bills) carvings and the same enormous stuffed bears and ‘I CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE’ t-shirts with half-hearted likenesses of a familiar politician. 

He steps into a place that looks like it has promisingly huge varieties of beer, and is seated in the back, next to a glass wall that reveals what is in fact an enormous brewery. He orders three different beers, fully aware that they’ll react poorly with his pain pills, and drinks them all down, also devouring a bowl of seafood chowder and a huge plate of fish and chips, because apparently Alaska appreciates English sensibilities, despite being on the other fucking side of the globe.

Clint gets an insanely hot waiter who spends most of his time flirting with all of his female customers, and ignores Clint except to clear away empty dishes. Which suits Clint fine, but, out of spite, he leaves him a dollar fifty in tip. Kind of satisfying to be a jackass. 

By this time, the world has gone somewhat fuzzy, and Clint is distantly aware that he’s abusing his internal organs to an extent that he probably shouldn’t. 

He wakes up at six in the morning, another twelve hours later, and finally feels something approximating well-rested. He wipes out half their initial serving dish of scrambled eggs, and then goes back to his room to shower and clean himself up. His thoughts drift, in the shower, and return -- as they often do -- to Ragnarok. 

But not to Thor’s death. That would be normal. That would be a thing he could accept. They shift to Loki. Five years since the fight above New York, five years of constantly fighting against any suggestion of Loki’s brainwashing sticking around, and yet. Clint has started to believe that he’ll never get over it. He’s started to wonder if he even really _wants_ to. 

When he remembers Loki, he remembers ... control. Control more fine than he’d ever had in his life. He was his body, his muscles and his limbs and his thoughts were calm and organized and collected. And Loki held all of Clint’s puppet-strings in one graceful hand. He’d felt comforted, and safe and dangerous at once. 

And -- something that he’s never told anyone, not even Nat -- he wanted. He’d’ve gone to his knees in front of Loki in a New York second. 

His own personality had been torn out of his mind and changed, replaced. But the wire framework of Clint Barton had remained, the strong parts of him, the ones that pulse with loyalty and that crave command. Loki’s handiwork hadn’t just destroyed him. It had used him. 

He leans back against the shower wall, carefully, and takes himself in hand. His cock is hard with memory and fantasy entwined. He looks away, not willing to watch himself succumb -- squeezes his hand tight, and strokes, imagining Loki’s hand on his throat, imagining that perfect control. He doesn’t even have to think about fucking. He comes hard, realizes that some point during the process he’d gone to his knees, and he hadn’t even thought about it.

He shakes off the remnants of the fantasy, and rinses the semen down the drain. Towels himself off. 

Thus done, he picks up the phone to the front desk and says, “I want to see some glaciers.” 

They recommend to him two different tours, one that has smooth water and one that doesn’t, one that has lots of wildlife and one that has lots of glaciers, one that leaves from one town and one that leaves from another, and Clint immediately gets them completely mixed up. He suspects this is still the pain pill talking, but he says, “I’ll take Whittier,” not entirely sure which one he just picked but at least 82% sure that it’s the one that’s only accessible through a two and a half mile long tunnel through a god damn mountain. That sounds like something he’d like to see. 

The front desk gives him a number to call, and Clint goes ahead and blows a few hundred dollars on a ticket for the boat and for a rental car. 

By the time he gets the rental car his head has cleared and the pain has sharpened, kind of feeling like someone is driving a pencil point into his lung every second or two. He doesn’t give a shit. He drives right down the Alaskan highway, pauses every once in a while to get out at an observation point think _yep, that’s a mountain_ and stretch his legs. 

Finally, he lines up at the tunnel in the mountain. It’s a single-lane thing, built in the second world war, according to the guidebook. Top of the hour has people driving _from_ Whittier, and the half-hour has people driving _to_ Whittier. Oh, and that one lane also includes a _train_ , so that the train literally has to drive the same way as the cars. 

The guidebook also says that there are little waystations in the tunnel with enough food and water to survive for weeks in case of tunnel collapse. That’s comforting. 

Clint closes his eyes while he waits for the fifteen minutes to crawl by, and then he wakes up with a start when some asshole behind him leans on his car horn. Clint notices the line of vanishing cars up ahead, and quickly shifts into drive. 

Just before he hits the tunnel, Clint throws the guidebook out the window. Overpriced piece of crap. 

Seven minutes of driving through darkness punctuated by ceiling-strung lights. Clint is aware the whole time that there’s an enormous mountain overhead, just waiting to crush out the little ants who would dare to dig through it. Just seems like tempting fate, to him, but he emerges safe and healthy and unscraped, even though the sides of the tunnel are perilously uneven and jagged. 

He’s got a few hours to kill. He turns away from the harbor, intending to drive around the town, and about thirty seconds later, he realizes that he did, in fact, just drive around town. There’s a single store, a single inn, a single apartment building, a single school, and a shitton of boats, occupying every nook and cranny and spreading out on an enormous parking lot bigger than the rest of the town put together. That is the town of Whittier. There is literally nothing else, besides what looks like a sprawling ruin up to the left.

Given no other options, Clint goes and parks by the sprawling ruin. Maybe this is the old abandoned military base. Looks vaguely Soviet, in its eerie, rusted regularity. He walks around it for a little while, and realizes that it’s actually much more massive than he’d thought. It seemed a couple stories tall from a distance, but it’s actually six or seven, and therefore much wider as well. 

He glances around, doesn’t see any obvious watchers, and, ignoring the protests in his ribs, heaves himself up and through one of the empty window frames. 

Debris crunches under his feet. He steps into the hallway, and views a long, creepy line of vanishing perspective: the hallway seems to go on forever. It seems like the sort of place that would be haunted by the tortured ghosts of psych ward patients. This wasn’t a psych ward, was it? That would make the town at least four hundred times creepier, if most of the population was insane. 

Clint has always liked horror movies, though, and so he continues walking. Just out for a morning stroll, in Alaska, in an abandoned building that will probably collapse on his face, knowing his luck, lately. Probably full of asbestos. He’s going to get cancer. And then lockjaw, or rabies, or maybe he’ll be mauled by a bear. 

Come to think of it, he’s not sure why he thought of cancer before a bear-mauling. He obviously has misplaced priorities. 

And misplaced attention. Because as he thinks this, he trusts his weight to an unstable section of the floor. His leg goes straight through, and he feels a long line of fire-pain up his calf. He’s slashed it, and pretty deeply. 

Clint curses. Carefully braces his weight, and pulls the leg free, his teeth gritted tight -- not gonna make a damn noise, because he’s better than that. He’s a soldier. So barely a sound escapes, even though he can feel the metal cutting him deeper. 

Shit. He has to get to a doctor. 

He’s an idiot. He’s such a damn idiot. Should never have decided to come here. So what if the cold, the ice reminds him of Loki? Jesus, he’s dumb. 

He wraps the jacket tight around his leg and manages to limp his way extremely painfully back to the rental car. There’s no place like a hospital in town, so he winds down the short road to the single apartment building, and knocks hard on the door.

When someone appears, he says, “Do you guys have a,” and then he faints. 

~*~

He wakes up to a prickling feeling in his calf. Glances down, and sees a pair of bloody, gloved hands sewing him right on up, neat as you please. Lifts his eyes blearily to the face of the doctor, nurse, seamstress, helpful citizen.

“Is this the one where you drain out my blood through my feet and replace it with Kool-AID?” he asks, before he has time to think. That’s not exactly what happens in the nightmare. The dream is much, much scarier. 

The eyes that meet his are green, not blue. The difference is viscerally startling, and Clint feels his heartbeat skip, jump and hop, all at once. It’s Loki. But it’s not _Loki_. The edge of bleak madness in his eyes is gone. Instead, there are just secrets -- secrets, and cleverness. 

“This isn’t a dream, Agent Barton,” says Loki, softly. “Though I thought it was, when they first brought you in.” 

Clint has absolutely no idea how to interpret that statement. 

Luckily, Loki fills the silence. “You’re looking somewhat the worse for wear.” 

So he is. He becomes aware, now, that his shirt is off, his rib bandages exposed, and he’s in a bare little room. An infirmary of some kind. The window is open, the breeze is fresh, and he sees mountains and water and docks outside. He’s four, five stories up. In the apartment building. He’s also been disarmed; his knife is gone. 

“You’re looking better.” Weirdly better. Clint rests his head back, figuring that if Loki wanted to kill him, there probably wouldn’t be any leg-sewing happening, and if Loki wanted to brainwash him, he already would have. He just needs to bide his time. He needs to wait and find out what Loki’s game is, and then beat him at it.

Yeah, that’s likely.

“Not dead, you mean?” asks Loki, tying a knot that Clint feels as a distant tug in his skin. Great anesthetic. 

“For starters.” 

“I suppose you’d like an explanation,” murmurs Loki, sliding the needle through the skin and flesh again. 

Clint waits. 

None is forthcoming.

“Is this one of those things,” he says, “where you take your statement literally, and you wait for me to actually ask for an explanation? Because I’ve always thought that people who do that are just on language-related power trips.”

A ghost of a smile on Loki’s face. “It’s a long story,” he says. 

“I missed my boat,” says Clint. “Get started.” 

In short, Loki tells him, the gods of Asgard aren’t simply aliens. They are in some metaphysical way deeply and innately tied into the human spirit. They live on as long as human need for them lives on. Whether that means reincarnated, a spark or a fraction of them slid into a human soul and a human body, or whether that means all of Asgard springs from a seed, they remain, and they will always remain until the cycle of Ragnarok is broken. 

No one has explained this to Clint before, and he listens with a restrained fascination as Loki finishes up the stitches, cleans up the wound, and massages something funny-smelling into it. 

“So I’m not Loki, really,” he says. “Not in the way you know him. My memories are dim, and what I have were recovered by vision quest. The native Alaskans are very knowledgeable about this sort of thing.” 

“You died three years ago,” says Clint. “Pardon me for saying so, but you look awful for your age.” 

“Time is a fiction,” says Loki. “I was born thirty-one years ago.” 

Making him younger than Clint, as it happens. 

“Whatever,” says Clint. 

Loki prepares a needle. “Tetanus shot,” he says. “Better late than never.” 

It sinks into Clint’s arm, injects, leaves a sore spot. 

“So, Doc,” says Clint, “what’s my prognosis?” Jesus, this is surreal. Him and Loki just sitting here, Loki hesitant and shy, and him bold as brass. They’re not fighting, they’re not killing each other, and Clint doesn’t particularly want to be the first guy to throw a punch. He wants to know what in hell is going _on_. 

“I want you to stay here,” Loki tells him. “But I think it might be a bit selfish of me. Would you rather run? Get back through that tunnel, leave me behind?” 

Clint can read hope on his face, and fear. Hope that Clint leaves? Fear that he will? “Nah,” says Clint. “You know how curiosity killed the cat?” 

Loki peels his gloves off, and drops them in the trash can. “I don’t deserve another chance from you.” 

“Maybe you can earn one,” says Clint. “For one, where’s Thor?” 

Loki’s mouth tightens. He goes still. Clint knows that look, he realizes. He _knows_ that it’s when Loki has something to hide. How astonishing. He’s only ever had that kind of anticipatory knowledge with Natasha, or with ex-lovers. 

“Okay, now you _have_ to tell me.” He laboriously sits up, and finds Loki right by him, a hand on his back, supporting him to help his weight from creaking his ribs. He looks up, and Loki’s right there, close to him, barely a breath away. 

Loki flinches back, as though burned.

“I went through residency with a man named Donald Blake,” he says. 

The name rings a vague bell. “Who?” 

“Jane Foster’s ex-boyfriend. They dated, I mean, during that time. He doesn’t look like Thor, not like I do, but he tried to be my friend at every turn. I don’t think he knew why.” Loki lets out a little laugh, as he goes to wash his hands. Stares down at them, at the cold water flowing between his fingers. “It makes you wonder: did he want her because a part of him remembered her? Or did she eventually want Thor because a part of her recognized him? What tangled webs...” 

“So Thor is alive,” says Clint, slowly, “and he’s a guy named Donald Blake.” 

“Yes,” confirms Loki. “I haven’t seen anyone else, not anyone that I knew for certain. I had dreams, and they wore me down until I left medical school entirely.” 

“What dreams?” 

Loki’s glance at him is guarded. “Darkness,” he says. “Alien hands, all over me. I dreamed that they stole my eyes and pushed in something else, something that made everything look crystal clear.” He turns off the flowing water. “I imagine that’s more or less what I did to you.”

“Sounds like it,” says Clint, frankly. 

Loki winces, subtly. “I went everywhere, trying to find someone to stop it. Psychologists. Psychiatrists. Astrologers. By the time I came up to Alaska, I was half-insane.”

“So that’s what you meant by dreams.” 

“I dreamed of you, too.” -- and is Clint imagining it, or is there a hint of a flush on Loki’s cheeks? -- “And, of course, of Thor, of the Warriors Three, of many others in Asgard. For the most part, very little of it was specific. A human, I believe, simply cannot hold the mind of a god. Just a sliver of it.” 

“Well, what do you remember about me?” 

He sees the whites of Loki’s eyes flare. A widening of his eyes. Clint feels powerful; he’s the one who went through this thing, he survived it, but this version of Loki is vulnerable and weak. Clint can be the one in charge. Clint has the puppet-strings. 

“Don’t.” Loki’s voice is tight.

“Why not?” Clint is reckless; he always has been. “C’mon. You won’t remember anything I don’t.” 

A sharp glance from Loki, and Clint’s middle goes cold. “I won’t, right?” he asks. His sudden surge of power is gone. “I won’t. Because I lived through it.” 

Loki clears his throat. “I have obligations,” he says. “If you come with me, you can’t talk about any of this.” 

“They think you’re sane?” He means it as a joke. It doesn’t quite come out that way. 

“They think I’m good.” 

For some reason, this hurts. Opens a low pit in the center of Clint’s chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” 

~*~

Clint follows Loki around. A few minor cuts and sprains, mostly fishermen and people working in the fish processing factory in what passes for downtown Whittier. He treats them all, with cool, efficient gentleness, holding the cloak of his superior education around him like a barrier. 

A lot like how he used to use sorcery, Clint thinks, distantly, as he takes someone’s pulse and makes a face at a kid. A _lot_ a lot. No wonder he became a doctor. 

“I suppose we’ll have to find a room for you at the inn,” Loki sighs, at the end of the evening.

“Nope,” says Clint.

“You’re going back to Anchorage?”

“No, I’m staying with you.” 

“You are _not_ staying with me.” 

~*~

“Told you.” 

Clint relaxes back on the couch, feet up on Loki’s spotless coffee table. Loki snaps his fingers like Clint is an errant dog -- “Feet _down_!” 

To his surprise, Clint obeys. Sets his feet on the floor.

“I told you,” he repeats.

Loki shoots him a glare, and flicks on the gas range of his stove. 

“You’re saying all this stuff is some product of human imagination, or magic, or destiny,” he says. He’s willing to believe a lot more, these days, than he used to. “That means it was destiny that I find you. That means you’re not going to make me stay in an inn.” 

Loki shoots him a glare. Clint ignores it.

“You want me to forgive you.” 

“Shut _up_.”

“It’s a hell of a thing, being burdened with this life’s sins,” says Clint. “I wouldn’t want a god’s baggage on top of that.” 

Butter sizzles in the pan, on the stove. Loki makes no move. He is frozen, and still.

“What do you remember that I don’t?” asks Clint.

Loki flicks the stove back off. 

Finally, he says: “We fucked.” 

...like everything in Clint’s life suddenly comes into focus. The abortive desire, the way he never can quite scrub Loki’s face out of his mind. The way it still makes him hard, five years later. His throat is utterly, completely dry. Feels like he’s in the desert again, like he’s been mummified alive. 

“Again, and again,” says Loki. “I wanted to possess every bit of you. Every living cell and broken piece.” 

“Congratulations.” Clint is numb. “It worked.” 

~*~

Loki sets him up with a blanket on the couch. He doesn’t end up cooking anything, just retreats back into his room, even though it’s bright light outside. 9 PM, and barely twilight. Alaska is a weird place.

Clint lies there for a while, until he eventually realizes that the sun has set, until his ass feels half-frozen from the Alaskan night. Loki probably divided up his blankets between them. Either that or he gave Clint the one that lets cold slice through it like a knife. 

Finally, he stands. Moonlight shining through the windows bright as day. He slips into Loki’s room, and sees movement under the covers. A shiver. 

At first, he thinks Loki is crying, but when he gets closer, he realizes that isn’t the case. That would be a stupid idea anyway. Loki, cry? He raises the blankets and slips in, adhering his body against Loki’s warmth, and sliding his hand around Loki’s waist. No, it’s not crying, just muscle shivers. Waves and waves of tension, unstoppable. Clint knows this kind of thing. It’s a response to trauma. 

Jesus. This is just some guy, isn’t it? Some thirty-year-old doctor with a lot of fucked-up shit in his head. And it’s Clint who’s taking advantage of him. Pressing him along the fault lines in his psyche until he starts cracking. 

He strokes Loki’s belly, under his shirt, with the casual intimacy of a lover. The comfort of someone who’s wormed too far into your life too quickly. 

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.” It’s not okay. He knows how not okay it is. He’s been through some shit, personally, and it never becomes okay. But ‘it’s okay’ is a nice fiction. It’s convenient. It helps you get through the day without eating a bullet. 

Loki struggles a little, fights Clint’s grip, eventually succumbs. 

“I would fuck you again,” he breathes. “I would break you and crush the pieces to sand.” 

Clint experiences a flood of rage. He twists over Loki and pins his wrists down, above his head. “Fuck you,” he snaps. “I’m not made of glass. And you don’t own me.” 

Loki’s body twists under his, spine arched in tension. He fights; his knee hits Clint’s hip, and Clint’s ribs spasm in pain. Clint backhands him, wondering how the hell this went from comfort to violence so quickly. What is wrong with them?

“You are _fucked up_ ,” he hisses.

“Let me _go_.” 

“Not a chance.” 

But he doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t try to hurt Loki, doesn’t aim to wound or destroy. He just holds him down, as Loki fights. He just stays still and lets Loki twist and tug to exhaustion. He crushes Loki’s wrists between his fingers, strong from drawing a bow tight, and eventually Loki goes limp. 

Clint lets him go.

Loki fights to recover his breath. Like he’s run a marathon. 

His temple presses against Clint’s, cheek to cheek. He lets himself be held. 

“The tribes in the mountains recognized me,” he whispers. “They called me Coyote, Enki. They called me Loki, and Snake. They said I brought sin into the world, but I brought fire, too, and I opened a box and let suffering ravage the land, and then gave the gift of hope.” 

Loki’s hand presses against Clint’s heart. 

“Lot of shit for a human being to carry,” says Clint. 

His head turns, and their lips brush together. It is viscerally familiar, to Clint. His hand slides through Loki’s hair; he turns Loki’s head, and kisses Loki’s throat. He remembers --

_cool skin under his fingers, Loki’s grip cruel and hard. His jaw open and loose, Loki’s length fucking over his tongue._

He sinks his teeth in, and Loki yelps, under him. 

_Harder, Loki had hissed, harder._

“Barton,” he breathes. His fingernails scratch Clint’s bare back. 

“I’m gonna tie your hands.” It’s not a threat. It’s a warning, a statement of fact. Clint pulls away, grabs a belt from the floor, and tightens it around Loki’s wrists, binding him. Loki doesn’t even resist him. Just lets him, maybe out of some desire for redemption. Or at least to make himself hurt as much as he made Clint hurt. 

Clint tugs Loki’s sweatpants off, and stops, then, just to see. Just to look. Loki is pale in the moonlight, his shirt ragged and wrinkled. Lips dark, and hands bound above him. Clint has never wanted him more. Never, ever. This dark piece of him, this subconscious voice, the one that always knew Loki had taken him as a lover -- that voice is all of him, now.

He wrinkles up Loki’s shirt, shoving it up around his armpits, and explores Loki’s belly with his fingertips. His mouth presses at Loki’s nipple, his tongue worrying it to tightness, as Loki makes a little sound of distress, of almost-pain. The same treatment to the other one, and then he finds out how many goosebumps he can coax out of Loki’s skin, how much Loki will twitch and shiver and how hard he can get before Clint touches his cock.

And when Clint does touch his cock, he worships. That’s what he’s always wanted to do. Not the brutal fucking that he senses Loki forced him into, as much punishment as pleasure. No, he wanted this. To draw his tongue reverently up Loki’s length and to swallow him down; to watch Loki twist and feel him slide his thigh onto Clint’s shoulder, opening himself up. 

“Don’t care what the hell you say,” he breathes, “you’re still a god to me.” A vastly different and alien being, and one that Clint wants to taste and know on a terribly, catastrophically human level. Loki is an object of fascination with him. Clint knows how to tame his fears and his traumas, but he doesn’t know how to tame desire. 

Or at least doesn’t know how to tame _this_ desire.

He squeezes out lotion from a dispenser beside the bed, and slides two fingers into Loki, dragging them along inside. Loki bucks, and semen spills onto Clint’s tongue, guttural and helpless noises from Loki’s throat. He likes that, huh? He likes being called a god.

Clint strokes up his thigh. He’s aware, distantly, that his ribs are throbbing and his leg hurts like a motherfucker, but Loki’s softening cock and the sweat on his skin are both far more interesting. He licks beads of it away while Loki shivers underneath him. 

He doesn’t ask Loki’s permission. Just fits in a third finger and presses until Loki breathes, “ _no_ ,” his thighs tight around Clint’s waist and his knuckles white where his hands have curled to fists, still bound in the belt. “No, no, I can’t.” 

That’s like a challenge for someone like Clint. So one hand jerks Loki to hardness while the other is relentless against his prostate. Short sharp breaths that are almost like sobs, and Loki grows more and more tense, rocking up into Clint’s touch, grinding down against his fingers with subtle, involuntary motions. Helpless. 

“The _sounds_ you make,” murmurs Clint, awed, and Loki really does sob this time and shake and he spills so little into Clint’s palm. Clint wipes it off on Loki’s abdomen, making him filthier. 

He turns Loki around onto his front, braces him on his knees, and pushes inside. This is what he wanted. Loki quivering underneath him, soft and pleasured still, so loose and relaxed inside that he doesn’t have any fight left in him. Loki so worshipped that he’s broken. 

Clint fucks him for a long time. As long as he can stand, with long and slow strokes fading to short and choppy, driving Loki onto his elbows. He claims Loki’s body over and over again. And eventually he feels Loki’s breath go irregular, and reaches underneath him to find his cock is half-hard. 

Clint presses his thumb in next to his cock, and twists it until Loki goes tense and electric around him. Makes Loki tighter, and Loki is biting down on the pillow, too exhausted to stay on his knees. 

He comes, like that, a burst of ecstasy while Loki chokes and spasms tight around his cock, going soft in Clint’s hand. 

He doesn’t bother to clean Loki up. Just gathers him up in his arms and moves them and most of the blankets back out to the couch, gathering Loki’s limp form up against his chest. He’ll wake up with semen flaked on him, still smelling like sex. 

That satisfies Clint, more than he’ll ever let Loki know.


End file.
